


Random Acts

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:45:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brothel, a prostitute, a customer.  What more does anybody really need?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Random Acts

The smell of sage was stronger on the third floor. It drifted through the window on the warm breeze that stirred the ivy just outside. This was one of the nicer brothels, he thought as he started up the stairs to the fourth floor. Clean. Relatively quiet. He heard pigeons cooing, roosting on the roof. Children laughed in the street.

He reached the top of the stairs, where a gallery extended across the back of the building, and sniffed appreciatively. Yes: sage, sun-warmed on the hills just outside the small town. A warm, clean scent that reminded him of the earth and the sun.

Someone had trained the ivy around the pillars of the gallery, so it shaded him as he walked to the end, the studs on the soles of his boots clicking. The wall to his left had been painted recently. The boards beneath his feet had been carefully swept. Definitely a brothel worth remembering.

It was the door at the end; it always was. That was where the brothel-keepers kept the two-sestertii boys, ready for a quick, cheap fuck, ready for an optio with an hour and an urge. He’d seen the more expensive boys downstairs, beautiful boys with velvety round asses and full red mouths. He had the denarii, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wasn’t here to talk, to pretend that this was more than it was. He wanted one of the cheap boys, the ones who knew their trade: knew not to talk, knew to just open their mouths or their legs and ride out a man’s pleasure.

The green curtain in the last doorway had faded a bit in the sun, so that it matched the ivy that rustled in the sage-scented breeze. Pleasant. The curtain fell behind him when he stepped into the small room and unfastened his belt.

And stopped. By the great gods— A Gaul. That lightish hair, those eyes the color of a cloudless sky, that rose-golden skin— had to be a Gaul in that family tree somewhere. He was about to fuck a Gaul!

The optio laughed as he dropped the sword beside the bed where the boy lay on his belly. Not a boy, a young man, muscular but trim. Good. A boy could be as small and fragile as a woman, and he was in no mood for that. Chain-mail vest followed sword. This man was a pleasure to eyes, for all his outlandish coloring: a fine nose and mouth, strong shoulders, a soft round ass. As he unfastened his boots, the prostitute stretched and raised up onto his elbows, spread his legs even more, tilted his ass to present the puckered opening, gave him a look of open invitation. A half smile made dimples at the corners of his mouth.

Tunic followed the boots, and the optio felt a pleasant surge of lust. His cock had taken a decided interest in the proceedings and was almost erect when he dropped his loin-cloth. Two sestertii were about to be very well spent.

The prostitute’s eyes lingered on his cock in a fine show of appreciation. Probably hoping for a few extra coins. The tip of his pink tongue delicately traced his lips. Not this time, pretty one. Not your mouth this time. Maybe next time. This time he wanted an ass against his belly, wanted to hear someone grunt beneath him as he rode.

He sat down on the bed and ran his hand up the prostitute’s spine, inhaling the scent of clean straw in the mattress. Clean sheet, too. Brothel well worth remembering. His hand looked dark against the prostitute’s absurdly light skin. The young man stretched and closed his eyes like a cat being stroked. Hand down his back and over the curve of his velvet-skinned ass, and the prostitute smiled, his eyes still closed. He thrust back when the optio probed with a finger, with two fingers. Glorious: a well-oiled ass and a prostitute apparently eager to use it. The optio picked up the bottle of oil beside the bed—good olive oil, expensive—and smoothed a palmful on his ready cock.

His cock slid easily into the tight passage, and he stopped with his belly hard against the firm ass. Held himself still for a moment, holding himself back. The smell of sage and warm skin, the gasp from the man beneath him, the slick heat around his cock—he was too close to coming. Eyes closed, he gripped the sheet on either side of the young man. Hold still until you can savor it. Don’t rush it.

He tried a movement, a small thrust. Then a stronger one. He opened his eyes as his hips fell into a slow, familiar rhythm. The prostitute lay quietly beneath him, head resting on his folded arms: he was done with seduction and knew that all he need do now was let the customer ride out his lust. The young man’s eyes were half open; he stared dreamily into whatever distance prostitutes watched as they plied their trade.

The optio smiled down at him, his hips thrusting deliciously into that silken heat. Soft ass against his belly, beautiful young man beneath him. This was definitely worth returning for. He thrust harder, faster.

He saw the instant that surprise touched the young man’s face. The blue eyes opened wider, the rosy mouth softened. Then the eyes closed and the young man’s head lifted from his arms. Another thrust, and his back arched a little. He gasped, and his hands clutched the sheet. He thrust back.

Even in the optio’s pleasure-fogged state, this didn’t seem likely: a customer exciting a two-sestertii boy into ecstasy. Just another ploy for more coins. A very pleasant ploy: the optio’s hips sped up.

But the man beneath him was in earnest. One hand disappeared beneath his hips, which moved faster, harder, faster; his breathing became something between a gasp and a moan. Sweat darkened the curls at the back of the young man’s neck.

The optio heard his own breath roughen, heard his grunts slide almost into cries. Heat was building, building in his groin.

“Master,” the prostitute gasped. “Oh, master, master, harder, harder, harder—”

He obeyed—and felt the young man’s orgasm grip his cock. The prostitute arched beneath him, screaming his pleasure.

And the heat in his own cock overtook him. He thrust hard into the hot body, and felt pleasure pour from him for what seemed like forever, vaguely hearing his own cry shock the warm air. For an instant, he seemed weightless.

Then he crashed back down to the earth, to a two-sestertii boy trembling beneath him, slick with sweat. So it hadn’t been a ploy.

The optio lay on top of him for a moment or two, catching his breath. Vaguely, he felt the young man’s heart shuddering through his body, heard the prostitute’s breath harsh in his lungs. The scent of sage mingled with the smell of sweat, the smell of their fucking. Above them, startled pigeons settled back on their roost.

The optio slapped the young man on the shoulder and got up. Good fuck. He liked this place. He’d come back.

The prostitute sat up to watch him dress. Pale skin flushed and gleaming with sweat, thighs and belly smeared, hair damp and curling, rosy cock still partly erect—the young man looked like a god of sex. The optio eyed him appreciatively as he wiped himself down and put on his loin cloth. He briefly considered tossing him an as or two, then laughed. The boy had had a mighty good orgasm—that was extra payment enough! His blue eyes were anxious.

“Will the master return?” he asked.

For a Gaul, his accent sounded almost Roman. The optio tugged on his tunic and his boots. “Perhaps,” he said carelessly, tying the boots.

The two-sestertii boy moved closer. His hand went out, almost touched the optio’s arm, flinched back. The optio donned his chain-mail vest and his professional demeanor. He didn’t want to be late back to camp.

He paused when the prostitute rested his hand gently on the optio’s arm. “Please?” the young man whispered.

The optio looked at him. There was a wistful heat in the young man’s eyes. The optio grinned at him and shrugged, oddly aroused when the wistfulness became longing.

“Please, master,” said the boy.

“Perhaps,” the optio said, fastening his sword belt. He tossed the young man a grin and turned to leave.

“Computer, end program,” the young man said.

——

Tom Paris sat for a minute, hot with the all-too-familiar shame as the Roman soldier with Chakotay’s face faded into the grid of holodeck one. Damn—he ought to delete this program. Chakotay would have his head if he ever found it. Or— He glanced down at himself. Or something else, he thought wryly.

He didn’t want to think about what this program revealed about him. A cheap prostitute, lying naked in the warm, ivy-shaded room and listening to the footsteps coming down the gallery, knowing that he would have to service whoever came through the door. It was always Chakotay as an optio, a centurion’s first officer; Paris wasn’t sure Chakotay would appreciate the parallel.

But there was a randomness to the encounters: Paris had included an algorithm that meant he never knew what the optio would demand. Listening to the iron-studded boots, he never knew if this optio would fuck him down the throat or up the ass, would be gentle or would slam into him in an act verging on rape, would help Paris to come or would jeer as he begged for orgasm, would watch avidly as Paris touched himself on command or would leave him to fuck his fist in an empty room with the chill of replicated semen drying on his body. Or, god help him, if the leaving optio would toss a couple copper coins onto Paris’s sweat-slick belly with a casual indifference that tightened his groin with arousal.

But the sheer randomness stopped him from deleting the program, made his cock sometimes start to harden the second he heard the ring of those studded boots on the wooden floor; the pure danger of putting Chakotay’s face onto the soldier was part of the rush that made him come. What did it mean if you made your superior officer into a brusque soldier paying for your services, into a figure as likely to slap your mouth as to kiss it, whose indifference was unfeigned as he left after bringing you to screaming orgasm, after you’d begged him to return?

Damn—he was due on the bridge. And he needed to shower. He just hoped no one smelled the sex on him as he went back to his quarters. Damn—facing Chakotay after he’d just been fucked by him was always bizarre.

And damned arousing. Paris felt his heart speed up in anticipation as he tugged on his clothes and sprinted out the door.

——

The sage smelled stronger on the third floor, wafting into the stairwell on the warm breeze that stirred the ivy outside the window. It was a pretty nice brothel, he thought as he started up the creaking stairs to the fourth floor. Surprisingly clean. No sound of squabbling from the rooms, only the shouts of children playing in the street, the simple chirping of a little wren swinging in the wind-ruffled ivy.

At the top of the stairs a gallery extended across the back of the building. He closed his eyes and sniffed appreciatively. Yes: sun-warmed sage growing on the hills just outside the small town. A wonderful scent that reminded him of home.

Ivy grew around the pillars of the gallery, shading him as he walked to the end. The studs on the soles of his boots clicked against the wooden boards. The gallery floor was clean; the building had been painted fairly recently. A surprisingly pleasant place.

It was the door at the end; that was where they kept the two-sestertii boys, ready for an optio wanting something basic, someone fast and cheap. The more expensive boys were kept downstairs; as he’d bargained with the owner, they’d eyed him with a mixture of knowledge and feigned innocence. Beautiful naked boys among the naked girls, pouting full lips and arching their backs to show off hard, round asses. He had the denarii, but he wanted what was waiting at the end of the gallery, one of the cheap boys, who didn’t pout or show off, just offered a mouth or an ass to be filled at the customer’s pleasure.

He paused before the green curtain in the last doorway, then stepped into the room and stopped at the sight of the boy lying on his belly on the bed and watching him over folded arms.

By the gods— That light hair, those blue eyes, that rosy-fair skin. Had to be a Gaul. He was about to fuck a Gaul.

He grinned down at the prostitute as he unfastened his belt and lay his sword on the floor, ready to hand. Not a boy, he amended. A young man. His cock lifted inside the loincloth. A young man with strong shoulders and a muscular ass and broad hands. The chain mail vest clinked to the floor. A young man whose sky-colored eyes held wariness—and an open invitation. He felt his balls tighten with lust as the prostitute rose onto knees and elbows and spread his legs even wider, lowering his head to the pillow to look up at him in submission and feigned desire.

The optio’s tunic drifted to the floor, followed by the loincloth. The young man took a hard breath at what the loincloth had hidden. The boots took some doing, but at last he was naked and on the bed. He snagged the bottle of olive oil beside the bed and slicked his cock with a trembling hand.

The prostitute arched his back. His well-oiled opening yielded to a thumb, then to two fingers. The young man gasped. There was tension in the prostitute’s thighs, a yearning to thrust back that was being denied. The young man gasped again as the fingers were replaced by a hard cock.

He stopped a moment. So hot. So tight and hot. Then he was thrusting, the young man below him moaning softly with every thrust. Oh, this was bliss: his hands clutching slim hips, that velvety ass brushing his belly. Bliss.

But not enough. There was a little sound of protest when he drew himself out. He pushed the prostitute flat on the bed and roughly turned him onto his back, noting the anxious gleam in the blue eyes. Noting also the dark cock erect against the pale belly. A two-sestertii boy enjoying himself as he serviced a customer. Very unusual.

He briskly drew the young man’s ankles to his own shoulders and plunged again into the slick heat. He cupped the young man’s head in one hand as he thrust, thrust, thrust, and looked down into the ecstatic, sweat-glazed face. Heels bumped his shoulders; the hot cock rubbed his belly, grew erect again. The young man’s gasps harshened into small whimpers.

“Computer, freeze program.”

The blue eyes widened in shock at the words, but the whimpers didn’t cease.

Because the thrusting didn’t stop.

Tom Paris looked up at Chakotay with eyes hazed by arousal. He moaned once, then closed his eyes. His ass twitched against Chakotay’s groin; the whimpers became groans.

“Computer, resume program,” Chakotay moaned. The scent of sage wafted again through the room, mingling with the scent of sweat and sex.

“Tom,” he gasped. “Tom. Look at me.” For an agonizing second he stopped thrusting. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Paris’s eyes drifted open. Chakotay stared into them. By all that was holy, the gaze was almost more sensual than the sex.

“Oh, master,” Paris moaned. “Oh, master.”

“I’ve never … liked that part,” Chakotay gasped out.

“Chakotay. Oh, god, Chakotay, Chakotay, Chakotay.”

“Better.”

But Paris was past words. As Chakotay watched, he arched his back and howled, semen splashing his chest.

And then Chakotay felt and saw nothing but the blinding light of his own orgasm as he thrust forever and forever into the gripping heat.

For a moment he thought he blacked out. But his heart was still juddering inside his chest when he opened his eyes; his breath was still harsh in the quiet room. Paris was gazing dreamily at him, still gasping and lost in the aftermath of his own orgasm.

Chakotay slipped out of the trembling body and stretched out on the bed. Of its own accord, one leg slid across Paris’s, pinning him, providing the only contact. He watched Paris as their breathing slowed. The children were still playing outside. A cricket started chirping in the corner. The shadows of leaves made patterns on the bed. They stared at each other across the shadows.

——

“So is this the part where you rip off my privates?” said Paris.

“No,” Chakotay said. “This is the part where you tell me what’s going on.”

Damn, oh damn. Paris shifted uneasily. “Well, I just— Well, for starters, I just got fucked by my commanding officer.”

“Who still has a sword handy, which you might want to keep in mind.”

Paris paled, then flushed. “I—” he said. “I just—”

The silence seemed longer than it actually was.

“I—” Paris said again. His expression turned defiant. “How mad are you?”

“Not mad.”

The blue eyes looked wearily knowing. “Disappointed, then.”

“No. Just—curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yeah. Do you ever—do you ever fuck me?”

The flush returned, but the eyes looked wary. “Not often,” Paris admitted. “I’m usually the—um—”

“The fuckee,” Chakotay said casually.

The crude word had the desired effect: it startled Paris into relaxing a bit. “Well, yeah,” he said.

“I enjoy that position, too,” Chakotay said, “from time to time. But it’s your program.” He pretended not to notice Paris’s jaw slacken in astonishment at the admission. “You know it’s pretty rude, putting real people’s images into your holoprogram. Especially this kind.”

Paris turned red. “Are you going to tell the captain?”

“Would _you?_ ”

“Well—” Damn—his face felt hot enough to melt duranium; if Chakotay had intended him to shame him into deleting the program, this was the way to do it. “How long have you known?”

“A couple weeks.” The blue eyes widened in surprise. _Gotcha_ , thought Chakotay. “Well, every time you were on the holodeck before your shift, you’d take one look at me and blush like a schoolgirl with her first crush. You think I wouldn’t get curious?”

Amusement lurked in Chakotay’s dark eyes, and his precise mouth seemed on the verge of a smile, but Paris didn’t relax. Damn. He should have known he couldn’t get away with it. But at least Chakotay hadn’t gone for the sword. Yet.

“I’ll delete it,” Paris said.

“Are you sure you _want_ to?”

Paris stared at him. What the hell was Chakotay up to?

“Do you _want_ to delete it?” Chakotay asked.

Paris studied him. Chakotay had to be angling for something, but for the life of him, Paris couldn’t figure out what it was. It would be big, though. “Aren’t you going to bust me?”

Bust him— “Tom, what did I do when I came in here?”

“You took off your clothes and—” Paris stopped. There had to be an angle; there was always an angle. Everybody who slept with him had an angle. Especially men.

Chakotay waited for the rest of that sentence. “And I climbed into bed and had sex with you,” he finished for Paris. “And made damn sure you enjoyed it. Is that the action of a man who’s going to bust you?”

Well— “Yes.” Because it was a power play; it proved he was stronger than you were, that he could make you do anything, even come if you didn’t want to. And then he had you.

At that whispered word, Chakotay felt his stomach plummet. “Not in _my_ bed!” he said with heat. Damn it! “I’m not _like_ that!” He leaned over and kissed Paris with all the fury he felt at the thought. “ _Damn_ it, Tom.” He kissed him again.

But, everyone was like that, it was just the way people were when it came to sex, everybody had an angle, and you needed to know what it was or they would destroy you. When he looked at Chakotay, Paris saw only the familiar annoyance, and a kind of exasperated tenderness. What the hell was Chakotay up to?

“So, what _do_ you want?” Paris asked.

Chakotay suddenly felt tired. This was going better than he’d thought it would—Paris wasn’t screaming about his privacy being violated—but it was also going worse. What kind of history made making love into some sort of power play? Then, looking at the man stretched out beside him, Chakotay understood. Well-formed, face of a Botticelli angel, an admiral’s golden son: the predatory would have closed in on him like sharks on fresh kill. Chakotay felt a flash of tenderness for the boy who’d never had a chance.

“I want—” He looked at the clean, ivy-shaded room where the cooing of doves and the laughing of children were a balm on the soul. “I want this room,” he said. “I want this bed. I want you in it.” He placed his lips on Tom’s.

Sex. Chakotay wanted sex, like a hundred others; it always seemed to come down to sex. But Chakotay’s lips on his were tender, and he was cradling Paris’s head with warm and gentle hands. And when the kiss was over, there was something shy in Chakotay’s eyes that loosened something inside Paris. It’s just sex he only wants sex he just wants sex, some voice in his head was saying. But this was Chakotay—and Chakotay never wanted just—

“Okay—who are you, and what have you done with the real Chakotay?” he asked, and Chakotay laughed.

“I admit, I wanted to strangle you when I first saw this program,” he growled. “My god, Tom, this is a situation that would flummox Freud! When I saw this program and realized what that guy was here for, I was—I was shocked and embarrassed and furious and—and wishing I weren’t ship’s counselor. I mean, on any other ship, both of us would get some pretty intensive counselling about this. I mean, it’s _me_ in this program, Tom; that guy has _my_ face, and you have him doing— And apparently you like it. I was all ready to go all Freudian on you.” He smiled wryly, and Paris felt the knots inside him start to loosen. “And all Federation, besides. Then I realized that I wasn’t just angry and embarrassed, I was amused and intrigued and—ah—well—”

“Aroused,” Paris finished for him. Had he ever seen Chakotay turn that shade of red? Had _anybody?_

Chakotay took a deep breath and leaped into the fire. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I was _plenty_ aroused. It was embarrassing, but—” Get it out, Chakotay. “But I found myself wondering what it was like to be him, coming up here to fuck you into ecstasy.” He felt his face growing hot; he sounded like a bad holonovel. Paris looked stunned—but his eyes were shining. “I—um—I ran my own program.”

“Why, Commander, I didn’t know you cared!” The response was automatic; Paris’s brain was fumbling with the thought that Chakotay wanted this wanted him wanted the sex except Chakotay wasn’t the type who just jumped into bed with _any_ body it had to be somebody he liked. But that couldn’t be. Paris’s brain was like a computer rebooting and running the same program and hanging at the same place. At Chakotay’s flash of embarrassed anger, he relaxed: now he was safe on familiar ground.

Damn it, how was it that Tom Paris could charm him in one breath and infuriate him in the next? He was like Coyote: you could never predict where he’d go next. But Chakotay had a certain fondness for Coyote, interesting sneak and crafty fool that he was.

“Yes, _ensign_ , I do care!” he snapped, and was shamefully gratified to see Paris wince. Damn it, Chakotay, this is beneath you. “Look—I didn’t come here to—” Well, actually, he _had_ come here to have it out with Paris. He sighed. Suddenly, this _really_ wasn’t going well. He looked deep into the wary eyes. This was just the damnedest situation he’d ever heard of, and he certainly hadn’t made it any easier. How could he fix this? Was it something that should be fixed at all?

Oh, god, he’d just lost him; Chakotay was going to leave him and go off and tell the captain and that would be it, that would be the end, he’d have screwed everything up pretty thoroughly this time, and there would be no Chakotay, not ever again.

Maybe he should just leave. It had been a bad idea, charging into Paris’s brothel program, except he really liked this room, liked the atmosphere of this place, liked the thought of the beautiful young man waiting for him on the clean bed that smelled of straw.

Chakotay sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed—and stopped when the hand touched his wrist.

“Don’t,” Paris said in a small voice.

Chakotay looked at him for a moment. Then he pulled his legs back onto the bed and gripped Paris’s chin in a gentle hand. “I’m not going to bust you,” he said, looking into Paris’s eyes. “I don’t _want_ anything from you. I just like this place, this bed, the thought of you and me in it and what we can do here. I like _you_ , Tom. Trust me—I never thought I would say _that_.” A smile deepened Paris’s dimples, and Chakotay felt his own mouth quirk wryly. “For some reason, I feel comfortable with you—probably because you treat me like a human being.” Chakotay’s thumb began to caress Paris’s softening lips. “I want to come here and make love to you and feel— I want to be here with you. But if you—if you think I have some hidden agenda, that I’m going to spring something on you later, then I don’t want to be here.”

Chakotay would have moved his hand then, but Paris took it. The blue eyes were shining.

Paris sat up. This was mygod happening; Chakotay was looking at him like _that_ ; he wasn’t going away. The cricket was chirping in the corner of the room, just as Paris had programmed it, and Chakotay smiled at little at the sound. If Paris kissed him now, he would kiss back, and it would have no other motive than the fact that Tom Paris was kissing him and he liked it.

“I want you—I want you to stay,” he said softly, so that if Chakotay left Paris could pretend that he hadn’t said it at all.

“ _Do_ you?” A simple quirk of Chakotay’s eyebrow turned that question lascivious.

Watch it, Commander, you’re on _my_ turf. “If you think you can take it.”

“Oh, I can _take_ it, Paris.” He gently kissed the side of Paris’s neck. “Nothing you can dish out that I can’t _take_.”

Paris caught his breath at the kiss on the other side of his neck. “Don’t forget, Commander: I’m not that holoimage you’ve been boinking in your off hours.”

“Boinking? What is that—Roman for something? Boinking?” My god, the man’s skin smelled musky and warm, and he couldn’t get seem to get enough of it. Then he remembered something and laughed. “Is this program at all authentic?”

Shit, he’d just wanted a bed and someone to use him. “Well, the costumes and the building are.” Damn, Chakotay’s hands felt better than he’d ever imagined. “I don’t know about the brothel part.”

“Did boys cost two sestertii then?”

That surprised a laugh out of Paris. “I just—I wanted something cheap, and a sestertius was a pretty small coin in the Roman republic. The as was a smaller coin, but a ‘two asses’ boy just didn’t have the right ring.”

Chakotay’s laugh startled the pigeons. His hand moved to cup Paris’s cheek, and his thumb slid gently across Paris’s smile. Then Chakotay pushed him down to the mattress with a kiss.

This was— Kissing the optio was never like this. It had occurred to Paris more than once in the last few weeks that Chakotay was probably a really good kisser—he had the mouth for it—but this was even better than he’d expected. He drew a shaky breath when Chakotay broke off the kiss. Chakotay’s breath was ragged.

“Is this actually the way you see me?” That had bothered Chakotay ever since he’d first met the optio, a brusque man intent on taking his turn with a prostitute and then getting back to camp in time to report to his commander. Chakotay’s left hand was learning Paris’s chest, his belly.

“No,” Paris said. “His personality is kind of a random element. I just needed a—um—a face.”

“Yes, but it’s _my_ face. You put _my_ face on your Roman centurion.”

“Optio,” Paris said automatically. “First off—” He looked at Chakotay with alarmed eyes, his face suddenly scarlet.

First officer— “And you didn’t have me in mind from the _start?_ You just _happened_ to use _my face?_ ” _Damn_ it, Tom!

Damn: hair tousled, face flushed with outrage, exasperation brightening the black eyes—Chakotay was a sight to stir Paris’s blood, even if his hand weren’t smoothing Paris’s belly and sliding lower. “Well, I—well, I couldn’t use Harry—it would be like fucking my little brother! And—” His stomach was jumping. “—and—I don’t know—I feel comfortable with you. You don’t expect me to be perfect.”

Chakotay’s hand stilled for a moment on the silken thigh. “Nope,” he admitted dryly. “I never have expected that.” Tom’s eyes brightened with laughter, and the body beneath Chakotay’s hand relaxed. Chakotay felt his own stomach unclench.

“Besides,” Paris went on, “didn’t you say something about running your own programs of _me?_ ” His hand found Chakotay’s firm thigh.

“Just a few,” said Chakotay.

“So, how _was_ I—by comparison?”

“You’re a lot better in person. I have to admit, though: _he_ knows when to shut up. You might learn something from him.”

“I never thought you liked ’em especially quiet,” Paris said. “Or obedient. You always struck me as a man who likes a challenge.”

“Don’t push it.” Chakotay’s voice was rough. He leaned over Paris. “You always push it.” He silenced Paris’s comeback with his mouth.

“Did you—did you look at _all_ of my programs?” Paris gasped when they broke the kiss.

“Most of them. Paris16 was kind of interesting.”

Oh, shit, the opera house.

“Big audience; very kinky,” Chakotay went on. “I liked the way everybody applauded when we came.” A little more than he’d expected to, actually; it had—well, it had added to the orgasm to a considerable amount.

“It’s got really good acoustics.” Paris’s tongue traced the curve of Chakotay’s ear. “When you come, it’s kind of—overwhelming.”

“So I noticed. Your holoself is a screamer.”

“A screamer?”

Chakotay grinned at him. “I didn’t say he was _always_ quiet.”

Paris laughed up at him, then raised himself for a good, solid kiss.

“I like this one, though,” Chakotay said when they broke the kiss. “This is a nice room.”

“Well, I’m not a _complete_ masochist. And it seemed like your kind of brothel.”

Chakotay growled and flattened Paris with a kiss.

“So you’ve run a few programs of me?” Paris prompted breathlessly.

“A couple.” Paris made a little noise as Chakotay kissed his throat. “Chakotay12—” Another kiss. “—14—” Kiss. “—15—” Kiss. “—16—”

Paris moaned. “No 13?”

Chakotay grinned at him. “I don’t think you’d like 13. Thirteen is where I got some revenge.”

Huh? “Really?” Paris hoped he didn’t sound too eager. Revenge could be fun.

Chakotay’s grin was half embarrassment, half mischief. “The captain sends us to check out Jeffries Tube 13. While we’re working, you smart off at me once too often, so I strip you, gag you with a sock, and fuck you till you can’t walk.”

“In _Jeffries Tube 13?_ ”

The grin was all mischief now. “I made a few modifications.” His grin widened at Paris’s laugh. “And we never actually get the work done. So, see, when _I_ sin on the holodeck, I add dereliction of duty to all the rest.”

Only Chakotay— Paris’s finger traced the laughing mouth. They grinned at each other.

“What happens in the other ones?”

“Oh, they’re very basic: they’re variations on I strip you and fuck you till you can’t walk. Sometimes we’re forced to by voyeuristic aliens, or you’ll be executed if I don’t, or we crashland on a planet and take comfort in each other—pretty basic stuff.” But Paris was laughing, which was delightful.

Then Paris was kissing him, which was more than delightful. And pretty breath-taking.

“We could meet here—once in a while ….” Paris let the sentence trail off, his stomach suddenly clenching with apprehension.

“Explore those other simulations,” Chakotay agreed with a grin. This had possibilities.

This had possiblities. Paris felt lust surge into his cock. “I don’t want to take it—out of the holodeck, though.”

“If that’s what you want. I’ll be your holofantasy if you’ll be mine.”

They looked at each other in silence. The smell of sage and sex mingled into something headier.

Paris took Chakotay’s head in both hands and kissed his mouth, firmly, thoroughly.

“You want to fuck _me_ this time?” Chakotay whispered when Paris let him go.

Paris shook his head. “ _I’m_ the bed slave in this program,” he said.

Chakotay kissed him hard. “Damn, I wish men were built different,” he said. “I want to kiss you hard and fuck you hard at the same time.”

“That’s Paris14,” Paris laughed. “And you’re magnificent in it.”

As Paris kissed Chakotay’s throat, a laugh rumbled against his lips. Oh, this was much better even than the optio.

“Is that woman downstairs going to come up here and make me pay again?”

Paris laughed. “I could put that in.”

Laughter faded to sighs as their mouths joined again hungrily.

“Oh, master, master,” Paris breathed.

Chakotay grimaced. “I don’t really like that word,” he said. “Didn’t you name the poor guy?”

“That was part of the fantasy.” Another kiss.

“Well, you can’t call me ‘Chakotay’—that just—I don’t feel like Chakotay here.” A long kiss.

“Well, I’m not calling you ‘Caesar’.” The kiss this time was long and succulent. “There’s a Roman god who fucked guys—I could call you ‘Jupiter’.”

“Huh uh. That’s a planet.” His mouth moved slowly down Paris’s throat, lingering over the sensitive skin.

Paris sighed. “Zeus, then. The Greek version. He fucked a boy called Ganymede.” He arched under the gentle onslaught of Chakotay’s mouth and hands. “He fucked a lot of—a lot of women and men. But Ganymede is the only one he kept.”

“Of course he did,” Chakotay said with feeling. Any god would.

“Zeus saw him and sent his eagle to earth to drag him to his bed.” What would it be like—to be abducted and dropped, naked and apprehensive, into the bed of a god?

The young man naked in the shaded room, his terror melting in the heat of a god’s passion—Chakotay’s mind roused at the thought. “Those white gods were kinkier than I remembered.” Chakotay fastened his mouth to Paris’s and sat up, bringing Paris with him. “Kidnapped by an eagle. Very kinky.”

Paris trailed his finger through the sweat glistening on Chakotay’s eagle tattoo, then brought the finger to his own mouth to lick the salt. Chakotay’s gasp fired the air between them with lust.

Paris grasped Chakotay’s cock. His head lowered.

“Don’t,” Chakotay said, putting his fingers into Paris’s mouth to stop him. “You know where that’s just been.” He grinned as Paris tongued his fingers. “Computer, a cotton cloth and water in a pitcher—37.1 degrees Celsius.”

“See, you’re a god already,” Paris teased. “Creating things from nothing.”

The touch of the damp cloth was almost too much to bear. Chakotay fumbled through his mind for some chant to keep himself from coming too quickly—there didn’t seem to be one. He’d have to rectify that.

“I’m glad I got the uncircumsized part right,” said Paris. “Damn, you’re big.”

Too much talk. Chakotay clamped one hand at the back of Paris’s neck and looked deep into his eyes, commanding.

And watched Paris become the youth stolen by the eagle to love a god, lifting his mouth to Chakotay’s in a kiss half supplication, half teasing desire: the kiss of a young man who knew he was enough to satisfy a fickle god’s pleasure.

Then Paris bent, Chakotay’s hand still firm on his neck, and took Chakotay’s cock into his mouth.

Chakotay closed his eyes and moaned. This was ecstasy: that beautiful mouth was clever with more than just smart remarks. For a moment he gave himself up to the wet heat of that swirling tongue. _Dangerous—this is dangerous_ , a voice in his mind was warning. _It is dangerous to forget you’re human, that you’re not a god_. But a god was what Paris wanted. That demanding god who stole a youth to warm his bed.

He forced his eyes open and looked down at the tousled head, at the pliant body where sweat was beginning to gleam. One of Paris’s hands held Chakotay’s cock; the other clutched the crumpled sheet.

A god could take and take; it was only to be expected. But a god could also give—that also was expected.

He laced his fingers through Paris’s, lifted the hand from the sheet. Paris clutched him as a drowning man clutches his rescuer. The fingers uncurled from Chakotay’s hand when he brought them to his mouth.

Paris gasped as Chakotay’s tongue moved over his fingers, as Chakotay sucked each finger in turn. Zeus had always taken his pleasure; there was no hint that he also gave it. Here was the Zeus Paris had half-dreamed when he’d read about the gods as a teenager: pleasuring, commanding.

He sucked Chakotay’s velvety cock in rhythm with Chakotay’s slow sucking; and then Chakotay’s firm hand lifted Paris’s head for a kiss so deep it seemed to plumb his soul.

No gentle lover looked back at Paris when they broke from the kiss; Chakotay’s hard gaze was a demand that made Paris dizzy. But when he reached for the oil, his shaking hand knocked it over—

“Computer,” Paris gasped, “flask of olive oil. Virgin.” He reached for it with an unsteady hand.

Chakotay laughed—as Paris knew he would—but the laugh was half impatience. Paris’s skin seemed to burn under Chakotay’s gaze as he sloshed olive oil into his hand and slicked it onto Chakotay’s hot cock. That mesmerizing gaze held Paris’s eyes as he sloshed more onto his fingers and slid them into his own ass, oiling, stretching.

Damn, the man could exasperate Chakotay even as he inflamed him. The dark cock erect against the pale belly, the blue eyes glittering in the flushed face, unfocusing as Paris’s fingers slowly prepared himself—was he _trying_ to make Chakotay so impatient that he simply flung the young man onto the bed and ravished him? Chakotay clenched both hands. A god could hold himself in check.

But not for long. The instant Paris’s fingers were done, Chakotay snatched the flask of olive oil and dropped it to the floor. The rich scent of the oil filled the room. Paris felt warm, strong hands at his hips, turning him, pulling him onto Chakotay’s cock. A cry tore from his throat as the hot bulk slid into him; he thought he would come without even a touch.

Oh, he would come without even a movement: the slick heat that engulfed him, that soft ass against his groin. The strong body in his arms—body of a youth so eager for pleasure and so eager to please.

Chakotay’s hand caught in Paris’s sweat-tangled hair, brought Paris’s head back. He kissed the side of Paris’s throat, bit his earlobe, whispered hoarsely, “Don’t disappoint me.”

_Don’t—_

Paris groaned, and that nearly undid Chakotay. “I like it best when you come first,” he went on. “Do _not_ disappoint me.”

When the god commanded, the mortal must obey. Oh, he was about to come Chakotay wanted him to come Chakotay wanted him to come first. _Don’t disappoint me_. Paris was on his hands and knees now, felt the groans building in his chest as Chakotay moved inside him. Chakotay’s teeth grazed the side of Paris’s neck, and he was murmuring, “You should see yourself, boy. So beautiful you could make a god run mad with desire— Boy, I could fuck you for eternity.”

Eternity in this room with that hot bulk sliding, sliding—Paris heard himself moan as he pushed back into Chakotay’s thrusts. Chakotay’s hands gripped his hips; would he touch Paris, make him come? Did a god ever touch those beneath him?

A god gave, but never gave up control. Chakotay’s hand took one of Paris’s, lifting it from the sheet, cradling it; Chakotay’s fingers aligned themselves along Paris’s oil-slick fingers, guiding them, wrapping them around Paris’s straining cock. He pumped Paris’s cock with Paris’s hand; Paris gave himself to the touch, powerless in Chakotay’s grip.

He was powerless in the grip of that hot body, hearing Paris’s incoherent groans come louder, feeling Paris’s heart beating wildly against his own chest.

Their hips thrust, thrust faster, thrust wildly.

And he was— Paris felt all sensation surge into his cock, and he was light, he was heat, he was pleasure wailing at the top of his lungs; caught in the grip of Paris’s orgasm, Chakotay felt himself become pleasure, become heat, become light, become his own rough cry.

Time seemed to stop.

And it was over, and they were two mortals gasping for breath, boneless and sweating on the straw-filled mattress. As they collapsed, Chakotay slid to one side. They lay beside each other, gulping air, not touching, watching each other across the sweat-darkened sheet.

“Well,” Chakotay said finally, “I’d say ChakotayParis1 is a howling success.”

Paris laughed at him. “Mirror next time,” he said. “I want a mirror at the head of the bed. I want to see your face when you come.”

“Did they have mirrors?”

“Metal. Bronze or something.”

“Good. Just that hint of an image. A clear reflection makes me think I’m getting off on myself. A bit worrying.”

“You’re worth getting off on.”

“Why, Tom Paris, are you flirting with me?” But he was laughing.

The sun-dappled room, smelling of oil and of sex, of sage and of sweat and of straw, warmed by laughter, where a wren’s song flowed clear and sweet—there could be no greater perfection in the palace of a god.

“You did put the privacy lock on,” Paris said.

“Now’s a fine time to think of _that_ ,” Chakotay said. “Yes, I did.”

“Next time, Jeffries Tube 13?”

“I want _your_ cock inside _me_ next time. What am I doing in Paris14?”

“Begging me to fuck you. Do we need anything more?”

“What, no complicated premise? You disappoint me.”

“Well, I think Pon Farr is involved, or something like it, because you’re only half human and built different, which is why I can fuck you and kiss you at the same time. And we’re stranded on a planet, and you’ll go insane if someone doesn’t fuck you. The plot gets pretty thin after that.”

“Pretty thin before it, too. Can’t do the only half-human part, but I can do the going insane if you don’t fuck me part. I can do that easy.”

“Why, Chakotay, are you coming on to me?”

A place of soft sheets and clean scents, where they could be easy together in the sun-warmed room. A respite, and welcome.

“Computer, end program.”

——

As the room faded, his joy seemed to leach into the gray grid of the holodeck. Damn. He really should delete that program; it was always hard to come back from. Reality just looked too lonely.

He sat for a moment in the empty room, remembering the warm lover and the bright bed, the easy laughter and the sweet, hot sex. The scents from the warm room were fading.

He was due on the bridge. Shower first—wash off every trace of that other life.

By the time he’d donned his clothing, the scent of sage had vanished into the recycled air.

**Author's Note:**

> My obligatory sex-on-the-holodeck story—doesn't everyone who loves Trek come up with one? It was the first one into my head, and still the first in my heart. The programs Chakotay describes toward the end of the story are actually the setups of some of my favorite online Chakotay/Paris stories—the ones that got me hooked on C/P (and, to tell the truth, _Voyager_ ).


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